Rebel-Rafting to the Land of Nod

Thick and moist; spirits of cut greens evaporating into the general atmosphere

-Inhale, React to Allergens, Sneeze, Repeat-

A wonderful humid aprés-midi for a pleasure cruise to the Land of Nod.

I hear

Wheels roll, 4 x 4 by 4’s, by the dozens; Calm rolling of the concrete-surf-foam, washing against the shade and sunlight.

Spruce geese, returning for Spring, to wail, Wallop, flip aerial tricks and shit on flat surfaces. “Never forget feel, I never forget feel,” They shred and they tear, whirring on Ball-bearings, purring on pine planks, fishing for baubles from piles of trash!

Covered in ash

and drifting out to sea,

the tide is churning,

my raft balanced in the hands of Ocean’s daughters,

stranded between those bittersweetest of rivers, Morpheus and Bacchus.

There are no maps to the Land of Nod, no -

Wherever you are, it meets you halfway -

And it warps and it ebbs, the mirage That it is,

leading minds into miscellanies wrought of metamorphosed metastases;

Groping through the shadows,

searching for the Heart’s center,

the gloomiest depths of Unrequited ecstasy,

gasping and hiding,

driven deep down under the atmospheres of Black Nebulae,

reading the individual Pericopes from the Book of those Living,

a Voice calling e luce obumbrantem,

Just echoes of forgotten knowledge, lost in the dirt form of its manifestation.

Then appears a sliver, a quaint Beam of light which grows in angle and Size and blinds one’s eyes acridly -

I let them adjust, and much to my true Delight, the Gates of Nod,

opened and Inviting,

the landscape so luscious,

Verdant and vivid,

smooth-running Waters from bubbling springs offering Forth from the essence of release,

But lost does one become,

too deep in the tunnel,

and the Voice from Out the clouds calls your name back down below.

No gates, no light.

Just dim reflection,

inner motion,

the loss of stasis.